I had the shaman’s file on my desk, his number right there so I could tell him I wouldn’t represent him in his case against the Nast Cabal. But I hated saying no, so instead I was organizing paper clips. I sorted them by size, then by color, as I listened to the tapping of Paige’s keyboard across the office divider.

Why did we have so many varieties of paper clips, when most of our paperwork was electronic? Was it simply that you couldn’t have an office without paper clips? Or did they serve a higher purpose—a frivolity to occupy the mind while one was supposed to be working?

I pushed the clips aside. Postponing the task wouldn’t make it easier.

Just as I reached for the phone, the outside line lit up. Saved by the bell, which echoed down the quiet hall twice before I heard a drowsy “Good morning. Cortez-Winterbourne Investigations.” Savannah, our eighteen-year-old ward and temporary executive assistant.

I waited for my line or Paige’s to ring, but the light continued to blink. If it was for Adam, Savannah should realize he wasn’t in. Unless we had something exciting on the schedule, he never showed up before nine-thirty.

Savannah appeared in the doorway. “The telephone is for you, sir,” she said, and dropped a curtsey.

A deep sigh fluttered from the other side of the divider.

“Hey, he said I needed to conduct my secretarial duties ‘in a more formal manner.’”

“He said more businesslike,” Paige’s disembodied voice answered.

“Whatever.”

Savannah marched over and perched on the edge of my desk, flipping her skirt over her knees. It’d been a struggle getting her out of blue jeans, but vanity had won out when she’d realized business attire suited her. She’d grown comfortable in the clothes, and in her role. Too comfortable, we worried.

When Savannah had decided to take a year off after high school and work at the agency, we’d presumed that once she discovered how dull secretarial work could be, she’d eagerly embrace college life. But the deadlines for college application were fast approaching, and the forms lay on her dresser, untouched.

As I reached for the phone, she said, “Oh, it’s your dad.”

My stomach executed a familiar flip-flop. Paige peeked around the barrier, green eyes and frowning mouth framed by long dark hair. She shooed Savannah out, followed her into the hall and closed the door behind them. Their footsteps tapped away down the hall until I was left with the hum of the computer and that blinking phone light.

I reached for my water glass and took a deep gulp. Yesterday’s water—warm and brackish. I took another sip, then answered the phone. “Good morning, Papá.”

“Lucas. This isn’t too early, is it?”

“I’ve been in since eight.”

“Good, good. How’s Paige?”